Miscellaneous Short Fiction
by Prue Lawrence
Summary: This is a section where there will be several stories from different fandoms altogether, the reason being is that they are all just short, one shots.
1. Annie

**I wanted to write a fanfiction about this because it just had to be written. This is not my original story!**

Valora plodded up to Annie's feet, her hands reaching up for her mother. Annie smiled down at the child, sadly. She already looked like Finnick, her husband, who had died in an attempt to kidnap and assassinate President Snow in the rebellion for the districts of Panem.

Valora had her father's sea-green eyes. Annie hadn't dared to show her her father's trident, yet. She was only six, not old enough to be part of District 4's fishing trade. Still, the little girl held promise in the way she sharpened a wooden stick by herself and managed to pierce a few fishes with precision that Finnick…

Annie's thoughts trailed off into images of her late husband. Only when Valora started wiping Annie's face with big round eyes did she realize she was crying.

Annie didn't blame Finnick for widowing her, but she still felt shivers of anger toward the Capitol for taking the only man she ever cared about in the hands of some grotesque humanoid white lizards. Mutts, they were called. Genetically altered creatures to prey on human fears. Six years later, and she still could not help mourning her husband. She was glad that at least, she was able to marry Finnick before he was killed in the war.

"Your daddy was a brave man," she told the girl on her hip. "Such a brave man." She had to stop speaking abruptly because tears threatened her eyes again.

Annie sat Valora down, but still held her daughter's hand. "Come on, now. Mommy has to go shopping."


	2. Lord of the Flies

August 22, 1952, 3:22 PM

Greenwich Mean Time

_*This is not my original idea as a story—technically this is an assignment for a class for the book, "Lord of the Flies." —Prue_

Alphonse sat in his seat toward the back of the plane. He shifted his pudgy legs nervously. Not for the first time, he wished that his auntie was there. To get his mind off the idea, he looked up and around him at the interior of the plane. Navy blue carpet covered the walkways through which the occasional flight attendant walked on, keeping tabs on each of their customers. A man dressed in a dress vest and tie walked past him just then, and Alphonse glanced back to him curiously, then turned forward and stared at the back of the seat in front of him, studying it. He began to draw small circles in the back of the seat, pondering.

His father was still fighting in the air battles, he knew. In large war balloons that Alphonse still didn't know how they lifted off the ground. Almost as big as a mountain, they scared him more than anything.

Alphonse's father kissed his brow and said, "I love you son," before he turned and left him to his auntie, who wasn't all that bad. Still, Alphonse remembered his retreating back and the promise that Alphonse would enter on this very plane to go to an old country home in America to take refuge. Alphonse felt his glasses mist up, and something hot and wet roll from his eyes. He drew them off and wiped at his eyes with a pudgy hand.

He frowned, wiping away the silent tears. A soft residue of something salty touched his tongue. He felt his throat thicken, and he coughed to clear his throat.

"Are you alright, young man?" A young lady knelt beside him, red haired and pretty; and looking at him, concerned. She frowned, and Alphonse knew why. It wasn't just him being sent across the Atlantic to America for safety reasons. The entire plane was full of boys whose parents were rich enough to send them away. It didn't make the situation any less worse for Alphonse. She extended a bottle of orange juice to him, the orangey sweet solution swirling around in the bottle. Alphonse _did _feel thirsty, and the prospect of drinking it gave him small comfort. He gave the flight attendant his eye contact, and found that they were a brilliant blue, and the folds underneath her eyes wrinkled. The flight attendant spoke again. "The war is hard on all of us, sweetheart. I'm sorry this has happened to you."

Alphonse sniffed again. "I'm sorry, too. But there's nothing to be done."

"Except keep hope that the war will end quickly," the young flight attendant replied, pressing the bottle into his hands. The coldness felt wonderful in his palm, and he rolled it from hand to hand, deciding not to open it just yet. Instead, he just stared at the hands holding it, attached to the pudgy arm with rolls at the wrists.

"What's your name?" Alphonse asked suddenly, feeling self conscious of the pity she held for him. He felt color come to his cheeks.

The young flight attendant, noticing his discomfort, shook her head. "I'm sorry." She pointed to her nametag on the left side of her vest. "My name is Nessie."

"Agnes?"

"Yes, but please just call me Nessie. What is your name?"

"Alphonse," he murmured. He didn't dare tell her what the other students called him at school. No, as far as she was concerned, he was named Alphonse. Definitely not Piggy.

"Well, Alphonse," Nessie said with a certain finality in her tone, but not negatively. "Enjoy your ride." She squeezed his shoulder gently, and stood, straightening the red-orange tie around her small neck and walked away, her high heels making small thuds in the carpet. Alphonse thought he saw her own eyes mist up slightly, and her voice crack at the last words. Maybe her Daddy was in the war, too.

Alphonse stared at the orange juice bottle in his hands. It felt deliciously cold in his fingers, and he carefully unscrewed the top and took a sip. It rolled down his throat, slightly thicker than water, but not by much, the sweet taste bursting in his mouth. He smacked his lips softly, closing his eyes and screwed the top back on again. He would save the rest for later, he thought.

Bored, Alphonse carefully began to pick at the label, thinking. He wanted to believe Nessie about having hope that the war would someday end, but his doubts kept stacking up on each other. If he didn't check himself, horrible images of his father dying ran through his mind—shot through the head, the skull split open, his father's face unrecognizable.

Like just then. Alphonse squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that the plane ride wouldn't be long, imagining the country roads he would see, and America. Green fields, he imagined. Daisies, maybe; a new school where no one would ever call him Piggy again. A new start perhaps, but hopefully not forever. America, where the war didn't exist at all.

Though, he knew that was folly. Yes, the war existed. Yes, bad men were real. Not that he wanted any part of that—the rebellions against the government over the use of the atom bomb. It was used, anyway. Which probably killed and destroyed so many military bases and homes. Families. The molecular destructive device.

At least it was less painful than being shot, he thought. Didn't make death any less horrible. He worried for his auntie, his mummy, and most importantly, for his Dad. He squeezed his eyes shut again. _No, no, no. Worry will do no good, Alphonse, you miserable prat. _He took several deep breaths and felt a wheeze come into his chest—his asthma. Another reason for him to be sent to America, his auntie had first advised. More clean air. Though, she didn't like the idea of Alphonse being in an airplane. Alphonse never liked the idea of being in a plane either, but that changed once he saw the look in his father's eyes. Sternly telling him it was the right thing to do.

Was it?

He took another sip of the orange juice from Nessie the pretty flight attendant. Again playing with the label on the juice, tearing at it slightly, eventually trailing circles on the back of the seat in the front of him absentmindedly.

Alphonse felt the seat beside him sink into its cushions. He glanced to his right to find another boy sitting there, looking at him intently with dark blue eyes and dark hair, reminding Alphonse of a messy feathered raven.

"Hullo," the boy said.

"Hullo," Alphonse replied.

"Your Daddy in the war, too?"

Alphonse nearly opened his mouth to protest, but instead decided to nod mutely. The boy nodded, understanding. "M' name's Roger. What's yours?"

"Al—"

Alphonse first heard something horribly like gunfire from a machine gun. He glanced around him wildly to find the source of it. He barely saw a fighter jet outside of his window when a loud sucking vacuum noise filled his ears, and he cried out. The orange juice bottle felt torn from his hand. The entire front half of the plane detached itself from a much louder explosion in his ears, roaring and determined. Alphonse shut his eyes, clutching at his head, holding his glasses to his head as the plane fell through free space, plummeting toward a large stretch of land he could not see.

Trailing after the falling plane was a long, red and orange decorative tie, fluttering in the wind hopelessly.


	3. I Won't Let Go—Undertale

_This is a fan made piece that I did for Undertale. I do not own Undertale._ —_Prue—_

Frisk entered the place where they had fallen down. It felt like years since Frisk had been here. A small figure in a green and yellow striped shirt knelt there, with a small watering can, and looking at the bright yellow flowers wistfully. Asriel didn't even turn around.

"Come with me, Asriel," Frisk said, tugging on the goat child's sleeve as they went to him.

"Huh? No—"

"I won't leave you alone, here," Frisk insisted. "Everyone's up at the surface.

A look like a trapped animal came over Asriel's eyes, and the fur on the back of his neck bristled, like he was frightened. "I can't. I'll hurt the other monsters. I don't think that I could ever show my face to Mom and Dad again. They—"

"—love and care about you, Asriel. None of this was your fault. You tried to stop Chara. I know that, now. And I know that you're strong enough to learn to fight them off."

Asriel shook his head. "Frisk, I know that you want to help me, but you can't. No one can. It was all over the moment I absorbed Chara's soul. I didn't mean to. I—" He bleated as tears filled his innocent eyes. Frisk felt like their heart contracted until it hurt.

But Frisk took his hand. "Asriel Dreemurr, you are the son of the King Asgore Dreemurr and Queen Toriel Dreemurr. You have more power than you think you do. We can help you if Chara ever comes back again."

"But they will!" Asriel cried again. "It happens a lot, you know. In the dark, I hear their voice inside of me. Whispering. And—I lose control. I become a flower again. Who's to say that Chara won't come back to the surface and hurt everyone again? Mom? Dad?"

"You have me. Chara isn't the only human with power." Frisk realized they were still holding Asriel's hand. They squeezed it, smiling at Asriel. "Maybe Chara will learn that not all humans are terrible beings. Maybe they just don't understand what it's like to be fully human. There are beautiful things in the world too, like love and compassion. We can teach them, together. Things will get better. But the one thing I know, is that I won't—can't leave you here."

Frisk wrapped their arms around Asriel and rested their head on his shoulder. Asriel's bleats filled the corridor of the ruins. Frisk felt a dampness on their shoulder, feeling each _pat pat _of something soft falling there.

"I guess," Asriel said between shuddering sobs, "that I don't have much of a choice in the matter, do I?"

Frisk smiled, resting their cheek on Asriel's. "Not much."

"I'm afraid, Frisk."

After a moment, Frisk replied, "So was I, when I fell down here. But I couldn't just stay in this spot. If I did, I wouldn't have met you, Toriel, Sans, Papyrus… You'll love them, I know you will. And they'll love you, too."

Asriel smiled for the first time that Frisk had entered the place where they fell in the first place, his small fangs parting his lips slightly. Though his eyes still watered.

"Just come with me, Asriel. Say goodbye to the Underground," Frisk said, quietly. Frisk took Asriel's hand and pulled him away from the flowers, away from the Ruins, away from the Underground.

Away.


End file.
